


What Year Is It Anyway?

by voxmyriad



Series: Ficlette Roulette [7]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Off-screen Minor Character Death, Sad times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxmyriad/pseuds/voxmyriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by <a href="http://imaginetf2medic.tumblr.com/post/80552743314/imagine-scout-being-stuck-at-23-or-whatever-age-he-is">a post at imaginetf2medic</a> on Tumblr. In the "oops my hand slipped" way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Year Is It Anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally on [Tumblr](http://tmblr.co/Z8MTfx1OwgHjV)

There was no date on the letter, printed on official TF Industries letterhead, that informed Medic (with appropriately sterile corporate sympathy) of his wife’s death. Natural causes. She had left him as the sole beneficiary. There would be no need for him to make an appearance. The company would handle the paperwork.

The team moved around so much, spent different amounts of time in so many different places. Some bases were always cold and snowy, others were always warm, there was no downtime to watch the colors change and settle the mind about the seasons. The pinup calendar at Teufort had been left on August 1972 for much longer than a month, longer than a year, longer than five years, the pages curling at the edges from the damp at night, brittle to the touch now.

Scout was the one who finally asked, “So, uh, how long we been doin’ this?” His hat was wrung between restless hands. “‘Cause, I mean, I was twenty-three when I got here and I know I got good genes and all, but it’s been a while now and I don’t look no different. We—none of us look different.”

He looked around the room at his silent, stone-faced teammates. “What year _is_ it, anyway?”

Spy stirred first, pulling out his cigarette case, extracting one, lighting it, deliberate familiar movements they had all seen a thousand times. “1972,” he said, expressionless, and walked out.


End file.
